Saturday, 17 December 2016 · By: Bloody Brodie

December 24th, it was,and the moon was full;glimmering, it’s light reflected from snow.The light was bright, giving quite a glow.There we sat, waiting to hearthe sleigh that reindeers pull.

The winds of December were blocked by my shield,blowing on top and around my house and it’s field.Not a neighbour in sight,not a soul to its yield.The cheap wallpaperaround the fire had peeled.

And such, my family and I huddled around,waiting for Fat Man Nick to appear without a sound.As a child, I’d look and look (but yet, never found)that man in red, with his sack gaining a poundfrom each gift made by the elves,From every cookie, every glass found on the shelvesfilled to it’s brim with nog, which was made by ourselves.

I screamed, I ran,I locked the door.I asked ‘Where’s Father?‘He left to the store.We need a few thingsfor breakfast in the mornand the snow’s getting bad.It’s looking to storm.’

Just then, screams were made!There they still linger,there they had stayed.With his dead, twitching fingers. the creature slashed up my father;his skin, it had flayed.Violence had shook this night,and death it had made.

His jugular gone,Father’s blood painted the floor;covering the snow,his blood started to pour.That is when we heardwhispers sneaking through our door,saying: ‘The liar is gone!Now I am onto the whore!’

Tears turned to icewhile my mother screamed,‘Quick, to your room!’while fur and shadowsseep through the seams.Darkness turns solid,becomes a tangible mess.I feel now we just wait‘til the monster leaves.

Waiting in my roomfor this horror to end,a crash came from the chimney!‘Ho, ho, ho!’ a booming voice had sent.Santa had come!Saint Nick is hereto use some Christmas magicto make chills turn to cheers!

But, to our surprise,blood was shed --but it wasn’t the beast’s…it was Nick’s, instead.Up the stairs, we heard it come;we then hid under the bedhoping that to begging of mercywe wouldn't succumb.

We watched it’s feetafter it crashed down the door.That’s when it collapsedin a shadowy puddle to the floor. It flowed towards us;the puddle, it rolled.The shadow had found usand sent fear to our core.

Out from the puddlecame a thick black thorn,and following that onefive others were born. Wrapping and clawing,drawing some bloodfrom my mother's poor ankle,dragging her down.

Where she went,and where she did go?Down in the puddle is where.The rest, I do not know.

The puddle, it idled.There it had satfor a total two minutes,then out blood it spat.Showering downwarm rain in December --painting the wallsand carving memoriesI’m now forced to remember.

Nature asleep,buried deep in the ground,there Santa is now said to be foundalong with my parents,killed by a beast like a hound.Eyes like rubies,claws so sharp.The scratches were deep…so deep that bone was found.

It howled through the night.It's cry pierced the cold.My parents,they tried to fight,but Santa?His soul had been sold.

So fair warningI share with you all:What comes down the chimneystanding eight-feet tall...it won’t be Santa, for Santa is gone,but it is the creature straight from Hell.